


Tomorrow is Never

by gloss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Crying, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Porn With Sads In, Post-Battle Sex, Sexually Explicit But Not Exactly Porny, Thank God We're Alive Sex, War Trauma, kinkmeme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6486472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In med-bay after a lost battle: they both survived but it's hard to feel good about that.</p><p>Inspired by <a href="https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/3961.html?thread=8110201#cmt8110201">this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme: <cite><b>Finn/Poe, life-affirming sex, injury & h/c</b>; The usual brand of 'holy shit we almost died' post-battle sex, but one of them is a little banged up though still totally up for it. Basically trying to combine the heat of the moment rush with trying to be careful not to make injuries worse.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow is Never

  
The future is never  
Never comes tomorrow  
Never is not  
– Sun Ra, "Tomorrow Is Never" (1972)

 

When things go wrong, they go wrong suddenly, and thoroughly, and _explosively_. One moment, the ground assault is making good headway through the abandoned village, stepping carefully and keeping the line. The X-Wings criss-cross overhead, scouting out ahead, then doubling back to provide air cover.

As each block gets cleared, the signal comes and they move ahead.

Finn is in the first wave, blaster in hand, heartbeat thudding in his ears. He doesn't see what goes wrong; he doesn't need to. The building being checked, just across the street, explodes. He's knocked clear by a rushing wall of fire, a block and a half forward from their last point.

Above them, snipers open fire. In the red-black smoke, Finn can't _see_ anything, but he hears the Mandalorian next to him moaning, and someone else screaming. He grabs blindly for the Mandalorian, desperate to remember her name - Liran? Rilan? Raline? - as he drags her back the way they came. He _thinks_ it's the way they came. He flattens himself against a wall, shielding her before rubbing at his streaming eyes. Whatever was in that building was more than ordinary flammable material; the smoke is stinging his eyes like Barabel nettles and coating his throat, making it hard to breathe.

Raline moans again and he falls back to a squat, leaning close to check on her. The skin on half her face is gone and her eyes are rolling in different directions.

He shouts for a medic, and shouts again, but the sniper fire is increasing. He sees two more fall, and then the roar of an X-Wing whooshes past, grazing the fire, blasting at a sniper nest.

His right leg is throbbing a little strangely, below the knee, sharp burns and corkscrewing pains. He tosses a blaster cap to make the decision whether to look at the wound: tab up, he'll look. Tab down, he'll wait for the medic.

Down. Good.

Someone else is screaming now, at ten o'clock from his position. Finn shouts again as he shakes out the one bacta patch he has on him and presses it to Raline's face. Her moan eases into a gurgle, but her one good eye closes. Finn takes her hand and places it on the patch, just to be sure, then drops as low as he can and crab-runs back to what's left of the line. The screamer has gone silent, but he finds Cicl the Quarren lying face up, blown clear out of his armor, whispering to the sky. His tentacles twitch listlessly in the dirt. Finn drags him back, too, and now his leg is really hurting. He'd check it, but he's out of bacta patches now that he gave Raline's to Cicl, so there's no point.

Another X-Wing shrieks past. He wants to look up, he wants like hell to see the underside of Poe's black ship and know that they're going to get out of this. He doesn't let himself, however, until it's far enough away the color isn't clear. Preserving uncertainty is the only way to get through this. As it ascends, a small rocket chases it, and Finn closes his eyes and throws himself on Cicl as the X-Wing explodes.

Metal shears from metal as each ion engine bursts in stages, again, again, and again, bathing everything in green-blue that just brightens and brightens until Finn has to hide his face against Raline.

The hyperdrive blows last; its reactor rains pure light. 

The medics find him an hour later, when they're allowed back into what's now First Order territory. The resistance has lost the entire city and most of the province. If they weren't so close to Republic territory, the Order would have just mowed the rest of them down. Finn is still shielding a dead Cicl and comatose Raline. His leg is studded with shrapnel and he has a nearly burst eardrum and fire-blind eyes.

He's one of the lucky ones. 

Triage determines that he can stay planetside while the grievously wounded are evacuated on the two remaining troop shuttles. He dozes, in and out of consciousness thanks to the painkillers and bacta wraps.

He's just about alone in the makeshift med-bay, just him and superfluous stretchers, so the sound of clumping boots is enough to wake him up.

"I am so damn sick of you passing out every chance you get," Poe says, dropping to one knee next to Finn's stretcher. His hair is raked back, flat from his helmet and plastered down with old sweat going greasy. 

"Hey --" Finn tries to sit up, but manages just to push up on one elbow. "I really thought you were --"

"Sprink," Poe replies, naming one of Flame Squadron, his mouth tight and lips gone white around the edges. "And a couple others. Yours?"

"Cicl," Finn says. "They won't tell me who else. Not sure they know. But a lot."

Poe drops his forehead against Finn's shoulder and rests there, trying to catch his breath.

When the time for uncertainty is past, you share information as tersely, as quickly, as you can. Names, plus maybe a dropped glance, tell you who didn't make it. Not to inquire further.

When he looks up, Poe's eyes are red-rimmed. "From up there, your line was --. _They got you all_. Incendiaries, plus snipers to pick off the runners. Second incendiary line behind you."

"They didn't get us all," Finn says. His voice is rough; exhaustion and relief are streaking through him, running over tracks scored by pain and fear, and he'd be dizzy if he weren't lying down. As it is, he's still a little tipsy-feeling.

"I'm going to get in trouble for this," Poe tells him. 

Finn's brows go up, his mouth opens, and then Poe's climbing up on the stretcher. He lowers himself as gently as he can, on his side, next to Finn. He drops his shoulder and fits his head against Finn's neck, breathing in, and out.

"You," Finn starts to say, then stops, and shifts his weight a little to give Poe more room. His bad leg protests and he sucks in a harsh breath, holding it until the pain passes. Before Poe can say anything, Finn turns, touching his forehead against Poe's. He won't be able to hold this position all that long, but for now, he can feel Poe's breath on his cheek and place his mouth against the curve of Poe's jaw. 

"I mean it, you know. Stop with this passing out bullshit, because I'm not sure how much more I can take." Poe presses closer, makes the stretcher creak, pressing his face against Finn's neck. He tips his head back, however, when he remembers one more wisecrack. "You're turning into the Boy Who Cried Bantha, here."

Finn's leg burns as he shifts a little. It's a while before he can speak. "I'll try to keep a lid on it."

"That's all I'm asking," Poe says, wiggling back so Finn has more room. 

Each change in position is tiny, a millimeter here, a couple centimeters there. Yet each one takes so much preparation and planning, it might as well be a lunar invasion.

"Where's your..." Finn swallows, trying to remember the right words. Poe's wearing only his olive-drab jersey undershirt and unfamiliar trousers, but Finn only just noticed. "Where's your whole flight get-up?"

"Left 'em." Poe extricates his arm from underneath his body and stretches it out so Finn has a pillow. 

"Left them where? How?"

"Flak suits are overrated."

Finn snorts. "Yeah, all that protection from shrapnel and flames sure is overkill."

Poe smiles. "Knew you'd get it."

Now that his mind's clearing a bit, Finn can really take a look at him. Poe's face is still sweaty, and there's a bruise running down from his temple, bisected by a fairly ugly gash. His hand on Finn's neck is a little clammy, his eyes glassy.

"What happened?" Finn asks, as quietly as he can.

"Nothing major."

Finn nudges him in the ribs and Poe squeezes shut his eyes. 

"Crashed," Poe says eventually, looking away, working his jaw.

"BB-8?"

"He's okay. In for repairs."

Finn runs his fingertips up and down the side of Poe's throat, tracing the tendons and arteries, then along the underside of his jaw. Soft and careful, testing the skin, just touching. He knocks his knuckles lightly against Poe's chin, then strokes his thumb over his lower lip.

Eventually, so slowly that there's no real beginning, Poe relaxes a little against him - his breathing evens out, the skin around his eyes loosens, his lips part.

"Where're you hurt?" Finn asks then.

"I'm fine."

" _Where_?" Finn can be very firm when he needs to.

"Ribs," Poe admits. "Broke a couple. Most. Might have a concussion. Chem burns on my leg and arm."

"Damn."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Sounds worse than it feels."

"I don't believe you."

"Your call," Poe says and, wincing, pulls himself a little atop Finn, curling his hand around the back of Finn's neck. He tips his head against Finn's face again and whispers, "I really want to kiss you."

Finn smiles so fast that his bunched up cheek dislodges Poe's mouth. "What're you waiting for?"

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Yeah, that's not a concern," Finn tells him, brushing his lips against Poe's, lighter than a breeze. 

Breath breaking against Finn's lips, Poe whispers, "Sure?"

"Promise." Finn opens his mouth wider, closes one hand around Poe's neck, and kisses him, tongue and lips nearly trembling with the effort to stay still and gentle.

Poe groans, barely making a noise, just reverberating against Finn. 

If decades of wind and rain were to wash away a kiss, this is what would be left, the merest suggestion of contact, their heads bent together, their breath and need both invisible, a brush and shudder and then, finally, growing warmth.

The kiss intensifies not on Finn's end, nor on Poe's, but in itself, outward from its own center, pulling them both in, tugging them closer, a little faster, a little harder, despite the pain and discomfort. Soon, Poe's leaning up on one arm, kissing the side of Finn's mouth, his jaw, sucking on his earlobe until he starts, as always, to chuckle, then sweeping back to his wide, open, _plush_ mouth, kissing him so hard that neither can catch their breath.

Finn's knuckles graze Poe's cut, and he winces, and Finn apologizes, and they shift around, but the kiss keeps going on, deepening, then broadening, deepening again. They can taste fear, and smoke, and traces of fuel, in each other's mouths; they scour it away as best they can before they're just kissing deeply because that's what they always do, fucking their tongues together as Finn grasps Poe's waist and pulls himself closer, tries to worm one knee between Poe's, despite the bulky bacta patches and Poe's burns.

"Sorry, sorry --" They both murmur, breathe together, try to slow down, but their hips are moving together already, rocking, the stretcher creaking. Finn pats Poe's hair back out of his eyes, kisses the bridge of his nose, the spray of delicate wrinkles radiating out toward his temple. When he kisses the edge of the bruise, Poe chokes on his breath, then digs his fingers into Finn's arm and says, "Don't stop."

Finn is careful, tasting the antiseptic, testing the heat of the bruise, as he kisses down the side of Poe's face, back to his mouth, then down his throat, until he's sucking on the vein in the hollow of his throat. His hips push against Poe, drag pain out of his own wounds that studs and sparks the pleasure. He bites the soft skin there and wishes he could pour himself in, spread under Poe's skin, stretch out warm and safe, hold him from the inside out.

"Hey," Poe whispers and it takes Finn awhile to come back to himself, pull his thoughts together enough to tilt back his face and find Poe's eyes with his own.

"Hey," Finn says, looking down, holding tight to the hard bone and muscle on Poe's hip.

"You made it," Poe says and Finn nods, slowly, like a tourist pretending he understands the local language. Poe cups Finn's cheek and says again, "You made it."

"I _know_ ," Finn says, angrily, and shakes his head.

It's not good news, not right now. It's the _truth_ , sure, but there are too many losses, personal and strategic, for it to be good news. Except for Poe: it's the best news he's ever gotten since the last time Finn didn't die.

Poe's other arm, under Finn's shoulder, is starting to tingle numbly. The burn salve and heavy bandage makes his touch unsure, but he curls his arm around Finn's neck anyway and kisses him again. 

"How much time do you think we have?" Finn asks. He still sounds miserable.

It would be funny if it weren't quite so bleak.

Poe moves carefully, planning each minute shift before executing it as cautiously as he can, until he's moved Finn back onto his back, arms free, one hand roving up and down Poe's back. Poe's gotten Finn's medic robe open, and his own borrowed trousers, and then he stops. He's looking down, squinting, gone still as stone.

"You okay?" Finn tugs on Poe's shirt hem, then pushes his palm underneath. Poe's skin is hot, taut, somehow more alive than Finn's ever felt. He wants to grab handfuls of it, stuff them away for safekeeping. "Poe?"

"Just --" Poe shakes his head and catches Finn's eye. "Remembering. Making myself remember this." He trails his fingertips up Finn's thigh, circling the very outer edges of his pubic hair, making Finn shudder and grunt.

"Yeah," Finn says when Poe's stopped teasing and just has his palm pressed against Finn's belly. "Makes sense. Never felt sexier in my life."

"Exactly," Poe tells him and executes the trickiest of his moves, lifting himself up, over Finn, one knee between Finn's legs and the other foot flat on the floor on the far side. He looks down at Finn, grinning. "You really are."

Finn rolls his eyes, about to say something, but Poe kisses him again, deeply from the get-go, rocking his hips into Finn until their cocks are lining up, rubbing together. 

"You've got to be kidding," Finn says at some point, hand on Poe's ass, stroking his crack. "This should not be working."

Poe thrusts faster; between his legs, Finn's thigh is hard, hot, soft with hair; he can't get enough of the drag of his balls against Finn's skin.

"Worth a try, though, right?" Poe gets out, later, collapsed down on his good elbow, grinding against Finn's thigh and cock, his mouth latched onto the hinge of Finn's jaw. 

Finn's got his fingers hooked into Poe's crack, pulling him open, and he's thrusting back up as well as he can, dick trapped between them, riding next to Poe's, slippery with both their pre-cum, messy and awkward. His eyes are stinging and the painkillers in his leg are wearing off, but Poe's red, shiny face above him is bright and happy, mouth open, line of sharp white teeth.

He hears the screaming again, and sees explosions in the sky, but _feels_ Poe's weight blanketing him, rubbing against him, kissing him deep enough to choke, and it's like being smothered in the best possible way. To stay here, caught and ecstatic, safely shielded, hearing Poe say his name over and over as he comes, voice wet, face wetter with tears, is all Finn wants. He can't think beyond this, beyond kissing the tears off Poe's cheek and panting for air as Poe reaches his bad hand between them and tries to wrap his fingers around Finn. It's all one long, anxious, painful moment that stretches further and further out. He doesn't want to come, he doesn't want to fall, he wants to stop and stay here, stay still, stay safe.

His forehead bumps Poe's shoulder, his mouth falls open, and his hips and dick betray him _(traitor!)_ as he shoots into Poe's palm, splatters Poe's shirt, his own robe, and it's the worst pain yet. Something rips right off him, out of him, something jagged and blinding; Finn clutches at Poe, both arms now, rolling back and forth, unable to stop.

Poe lets him, though the rocking grinds his hurt ribs together in a way that feels _wrong_ and makes breathing chancey. He holds Finn's face against his shoulder, palm cupped around the back of his skull. 

Poe kisses the top of Finn's head and rubs his knuckles against the tendons at the nape of his neck.

"Hey," Finn says eventually, sniffing wetly. "Sorry."

"It's all right. It's more than all right."

Finn has to sit up to help Poe off him. Poe cleans them up with the hem of his shirt, shrugging _what can you do? needs must_ , then leans with Finn to get resituated, until they're sitting next to each other, hand in hand, Poe's head on Finn's shoulder.

"Maybe when we get back," Finn says, and runs the pad of his thumb in circles along the back of Poe's hand, "maybe we could try again."

"Are you asking me out, sir?" Poe asks, fluttering his eyelashes.

"Asshole. I mean --" Finn exhales and looks ahead. "I kind of ruined that moment. I'd like another try."

Poe bites his lip. "It's not like you only get one chance. We can do that a billion more times. I'm planning on that, in fact. A billion's a conservative estimate."

Finn huffs out a long, rocky sigh. "Just --. _Listen_ to me."

"I am," Poe says softly. "I hear you. And it's okay."

Finn doesn't say anything; he doesn't let go of Poe's hand, but his grasp slackens as he looks down, shoulders bowed. Poe takes a breath, holds it, and shifts as quickly as he can (not very) until he's behind Finn, arms wrapped around him, chin planted on Finn's shoulder.

"When you feel better," Poe says, "I'm going to lay you back and taste every bit of you."

Finn shakes his head and snorts lightly, derisively.

"Sssh," Poe says, "I'm going somewhere with this. I'm doing it right now, actually. You're lying down and you're still wet from the 'fresher, and there's no time to dry off because I'm _on_ you, and I'm not letting you up."

Finn takes one shaky breath, then another. Poe's hands are rubbing his chest, so lightly, up and down, reminding him of warmth.

"Your neck and your shoulder and every bumpy little vertebra, and your shoulder blades, every centimeter of them, and down and further down and I'm going to spread you open and eat out your ass until you're floating and harder than you've ever been and I'm going to keep going and you're going to say, _hey, Poe, man, let up_ , but, nope. Not going to."

Finn's shaking a little now, breathing that much faster. He's turned his head so their cheeks are pressed together and when Poe speaks, he feels the vibrations run through his own mouth.

"I'm going to taste every part of you," Poe says as he tightens his arms around Finn, "and you're probably going to get really bored eventually, but them's the breaks, buddy, because I'm just getting started."

Finn snickers a little, then laughs, lightly, for real, finally. He stops, and sighs.

Poe says, "You're stuck with me, sucker."

"Fine by me." Finn folds his arms over Poe's, so it's like he's holding Poe, but himself, too.

Poe nips on the bare skin just above the collar of Finn's robe. "A billion times, I'm telling you."

"Conservative estimate, I heard." Finn's voice still sounds thick and sad, but he squeezes Poe's arms harder yet.

"You know me," Poe replies. "I'm a cautious guy."

The next breath Finn takes is painful, but the one after that a little easier. Poe tucks his cheek more snugly into the curve of Finn's neck and shoulder and breathes with him.

When the last transport returns, the medics find both Finn and Poe asleep, slumped against the wall and each other, arms tangled up, legs akimbo.


End file.
